


i got cut, not stabbed

by cowboytime (thegoatz)



Category: Red Dead Redemption (Video Games)
Genre: Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Blood, Blood and Injury, Fist Fights, Gen, Hurt Dutch, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Injury Recovery, Knife Wound, M/M, Strangulation, arthur and hosea have to put up with dutch's dumb ass, at least the start of it, could be read as romantic or platonic, dutch gets in a bar fight
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-30
Updated: 2020-05-30
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:28:31
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,866
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24455200
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thegoatz/pseuds/cowboytime
Summary: "You had it handled? You got fucking stabbed!""Cut," Dutch said pointedly, "I got cut, I did not get stabbed."
Relationships: Arthur Morgan & Dutch van der Linde, Hosea Matthews & Arthur Morgan, Hosea Matthews & Dutch van der Linde, Hosea Matthews/Dutch van der Linde
Comments: 4
Kudos: 67





	i got cut, not stabbed

In hindsight, Dutch should have never gotten so worked up.

He doesn't exactly know how, or _why_ , he lost control so easily, maybe it was the stress of spending most of last night coming up with new plans to get money or maybe it was that he had too much to drink, Dutch really doesn't know.

But that doesn't really matter right now. Because what matters right now to Dutch is getting out of the bar fight as unscathed as possible, which, as the seconds pass, feels harder and harder to accomplish. As he dodges a punch that comes too close to his face for his liking, he thinks that it's rather ironic how he always warned Arthur to stay out of trouble, chastising him whenever he got into so much as a little scuffle, only to be caught up in it himself; he knows if he makes it out then he'd never hear the end of it. A sharp fist hits him right in the side and he tries his best not to double over, not quick enough to duck underneath one that collides right with his jaw, and _god_ when did he get so slow.

Time is a bastard.

In his younger days, Dutch would have finished this fight ages ago: _hell_ , probably would have been halfway back to camp by now. He manages to get his hands up in time to stop a dangerous-looking hook, delivering one right back and feeling the satisfying crunch of a bone breaking underneath his knuckles. He follows up on it, giving the drunken fool a swift uppercut, a small smirk on his face as he sees him crumple to the ground.

Rough, calloused, hands are on his shoulders, spinning him around, and he doesn't even have time to react before a fist is colliding with the bridge of his nose. From the pain that shoots through his nose, and from the warmth that finds itself on his top lip, Dutch assumes that it's broken. Hosea will be so mad. If these guys don't kill him, Dutch is sure that Hosea and Arthur will, or _god forbid_ Miss Grimshaw - and if he wasn't so focused on dodging the punch that was aimed right for his broken nose he would have shivered.

Another pair of hands is grabbing his arms from behind, preventing him from defending himself as the man in front threw punch after punch to his body, and from the anger in his eyes and the pain flaring in his torso, Dutch wouldn't be surprised if he had a broken rib or two. After _far_ too long, he manages to break free from the man's hold, slamming his head hard enough into the bar counter that it knocks him clean out.

He spins around so he faces the man that just battered his poor torso and spits blood right in his face, a grin forming on his face when he sees the man's face darken, although it almost instantly falls when the man reaches behind him and pulls something out. From how the light shimmered on it as the man moves it around for Dutch to see, he assumes it's a knife, and suddenly he wishes that he had just stayed at camp.

The man yells as he runs towards him, and the logical part of his brain tells him to run as fast as he could: to get out while he could, and whilst running is a thing that Dutch is very good at nowadays, he, either heroically or foolishly, it's too early to tell, stands his ground.

He only just manages to dodge the first swipe of his knife that finds itself aimed at his chest, feeling the fabric of his clothes tearing, and Dutch is _seriously_ regretting his decision to stay and fight. He blindly swings his fist as hard as could, almost smirking when he feels it collide with flesh. It seems like he managed to knock the knife out of the man's hand because he hears metal clang on the ground. Dutch swings again, this time aiming for the man's head, but is met with only air.

Hands are pressed against his torso, pushing against the bruises that he just knows are forming, and Dutch hisses out a wince. He's pushed backwards until the wooden edge of the bar is colliding with his back, driving the wind out of him while he lets out a loud groan. He can't help but double over slightly. Dutch glances over and sees the familiar gleam of metal coming straight for him and moves out the way as quickly as he can. But, unfortunately, it wasn't quick enough because he feels a _burning_ pain in his side, and sees red on the tip of the knife as it comes into view. Luckily it seems to have only just caught him, but that fact does nothing to dull the pain.

The man swings again in the opposite direction, and luckily this time Dutch manages to move out of the way, looking back soon enough to see and hear, the splintering of wood as the knife becomes embedded into the bar. Seizing the opportunity, Dutch lunges for the man, able to get a few hard punches in before he's being shoved to the ground. The man is on top of him before he could blink, those grimy, dirty, hands wrapping around his throat.

The man is squeezing _so hard_ around Dutch's throat that he's surprised that his neck hasn't snapped. He gasps for air, and the lightheadedness comes far too soon for Dutch's liking. His hands claw the man's own, trying his hardest to peel the man's fingers away even in the _slightest_ so he could just get the tiniest bit of air and _breathe_ but when that doesn't work his hands quickly move to claw the man's face as best he could, feeling his skin get caught under his fingernails.

His legs are battering on the wooden floorboards of the bar, and as spots start to fill his vision, he can't help but think about all the things he's survived, all the crazed gunfights and the blood-thirsty bounty hunters and the Pinkertons and the O'Driscolls, and yet a stupid bar fight is the thing that kills him. His limbs feel like lead, and his head feels like it's going to explode, and everything just _aches_. Dutch can faintly see the man sneering, and a sudden burst of anger fills him.

He isn't going to die like this. No way in _hell_.

His hand clenches into a fist, and he puts all his energy, no matter how little it was due to the lack of oxygen, and swings as hard as he could with the man's head. He hears a crack, can feel it too, and the man falls off him. Dutch _gasps_ for air and staggers to his feet, trying to ignore how his fingers tingle. The man is seemingly still reeling from the punch, trying to stumble his way to his own feet, but Dutch stops him with a stiff _stomp_ to the side of the head. The man slumps down, unmoving.

Dutch brings a hand to his throat as he falls to his knees, wheezing. His whole body is trembling, but Dutch doesn't know whether it was from the pain or the adrenaline. His whole body aches, and he almost falls when he pushes himself to his feet, leaning against the bar as he tries to get air to his burning lungs. He needed to get out of there before anyone else came along because he did not fancy his chances at taking on another man.

As he begins to walk towards the door, a stabbing pain makes itself known, and Dutch looks down to see red. He'd somehow forgotten about that. He places a tentative hand on the wound, hissing as it caused new pain to flare. When he drew his hand away, he saw way more blood than he thought there would be, and thinks that maybe the knife had cut him deeper than he originally thought. But that didn't matter, because what mattered now was just making sure that he got back to camp without meeting any more trouble. He grits his teeth so hard he thought they might shatter to pieces as he trudged his way back to his horse, every step jostling his new injuries.

Mounting his horse hurt _way_ more than he thought it would, but maybe that was just due to some of the adrenaline wearing off. The Count waited patiently, and once again Dutch finds himself so very grateful for having such a good horse. He makes a mental note to give him some of his favourite treats when he gets back. That is _if_ he gets back.

The ride back to camp is longer than it usually is, partly due to the fact that Dutch is _really_ struggling to keeps his eyes open, and also partly due to how Dutch went to a different bar than his normal one, no reason than wanting to try something new. No way in hell that he's _ever_ going back there again. 

It feels like all the alcohol that he drank did nothing to help dull the pain; the only thing that it did help with was getting him in that goddamned situation in the first place again, but then again him and his inability to shut his big mouth didn't help. His hand is clutching his side, grimacing as every breath ached deep inside his lungs. He's pretty sure bruises have formed on his neck as well, because sharp stings shoot up from underneath his fingertips whenever he touches it. Dutch just hopes that he hasn't got any blood on the Count. Blood always was a bitch to wash off from horse's coats, but he just can't bring himself to look down.

He doesn't exactly know why, but for some reason, he's scared of what he might see, so instead he tries to focus on the feeling of the ground crunching beneath the Count's hooves, and the cool breeze that moves past him. Breathing still hasn't stopped hurting, but the cold air helps somehow. His eyes feel so _heavy_ , but he's so close to camp, so Dutch forces them open, pushing down on the cut in his side to waken him up more, and for the most part, it works, but he feels fresh blood flow from the wound. When he sees the familiarity of camp, all fight in Dutch dissipates, and he barely reaches the hitching post before his eyes are closing, and he's slumping forward.

  
To say that Hosea had been worried sick would be an understatement. It was late, and Dutch _still_ wasn't back. The cheek of that man. As soon as Dutch got back Hosea was going to give him a piece of his mind. The camp needed him, now more than ever, and where was he? Out getting drunk probably. The _fool_.

Hosea doesn't even know if he's truly angry at Dutch, he's at that point where the line between worry and anger is so very thin, and Hosea knows that as soon as Dutch arrives any previous anger would melt, instead returning into foolish relief. Dutch could handle himself just fine, but the world was constantly changing, and there were new dangers every day. And Hosea swears that if Dutch isn't back soon, then he'll ride out and kill the man himself.

And suddenly, he can hear the trotting of hooves, and Hosea looks up from the box that he was sitting on to see that unmistakable white coat.

"Dutch is back," Hosea says, nudging Arthur awake, who had fallen asleep shortly after he so kindly kept him company as he waited for Dutch, no doubt worrying as well, but hiding it better than Hosea ever could.

Arthur grumbles something as he jolts awake, rubbing his eyes as he tries to wake himself up.

"'Bout _time_ ," Arthur mumbles, but Hosea barely hears it as his eyes are focused solely on Dutch.

Something feels wrong.

The Count slows to a stop, but Dutch remains still for a moment, before slumping over and falling off his saddle, his body colliding to the ground with a loud thump. Hosea is instantly on his feet, calling Dutch's name as he runs over to him. Arthur jumps up too, wondering what's wrong, and hurrying over to join Hosea when he sees Dutch's body crumpled on the ground. Dutch is barely moving when they reach him, hell, he's barely even breathing, and for a moment Hosea thinks he's not, but then he sees the small rise and fall of his chest and finds a small bit of relief.

Arthur is calling for people to help, and Hosea glances over to see people starting to come out of their tents, looking confused and worried as they try to properly wake up, before turning his attention back to Dutch.

"He's bleeding, Arthur," Hosea says worriedly, as he sees the blood coated on Dutch's fingers, and the cut on his side, " _badly_."

Charles and Javier are by their side almost instantly, and they all help to pick him up, Hosea yelling at Miss Grimshaw to get supplies ready as they hurry over to Dutch's tent. Everyone looks concerned as they pass them by, and Hosea knows that his own face mirrors them. Miss Grimshaw is already there with the, somewhat dwindling, medical supplies that they have. The four men place Dutch gently down on his bed, Miss Grimshaw ushering Javier and Charles out of the tent before closing the flap behind him.

Hosea is already hurrying to get everything ready, Miss Grimshaw helping out as best she can.

"What the hell happened to him, Hosea?" Arthur asks, as his eyes scan over the blood and bruises on his face.

"I don't know, son, but when he wakes up he's got _a lot_ of explaining to do," Hosea replies, refusing to say if because there is no doubt in Hosea's mind that Dutch will survive. He needs to survive so that Hosea can kill him himself.

Arthur sits and watches as Hosea slowly unbuttons Dutch's shirt, carefully peeling away the fabric that got stuck to his skin. There's more blood than either of them are comfortable with, but then again, any blood is more blood than they were comfortable with. Countless bruises are littered across his torso, and Hosea grits his teeth as his eyes flutter over the sheer amount of them, instead turning his focus onto the cut on his side. He grabs the suture needle and gets to work sewing up the wound, placing a gentle hand on Dutch's hip to keep him still when he shifts in his sleep.

The smell of blood is almost overwhelming, and Arthur just can't bear it anymore. He gets up quietly, and slips outside, taking in a lungful of fresh air. People hurry over, and Arthur internally sighs, he really doesn't want to deal with this right now. They all ask if Dutch is okay, and Arthur reassures them that he's fine, trying to hide the blood on his hands as to not worry them further. He quickly finds himself being overwhelmed by the sheer amount of questions and can feel his irritation rising.

But then Miss Grimshaw is by his side, shouting at them all to go back to their tents, that tone in her voice which tells them all that she's not to be argued with. They all scurry away, and Arthur thanks her. She smiles at him, placing a delicate hand on his arms.

"Why don't you get yourself cleaned up? Hosea'll be done by the time you get back."

Arthur takes a deep breath and reluctantly nods his head. He badly wants to stay with Dutch, but he knows he won't be any help to Hosea. He almost feels sick as he washes the blood off his hands, and quickly feels bile rising to his throat, which he swallows back down with a shudder. It leaves a disgusting taste on his tongue, and Arthur braces himself as he tries not to heave. Thankfully he isn't sick, and instead, he takes the few moments respite and calms himself. He's worried, that much is obvious, but he's also angry. Angry at himself for not going out and searching for him, angry at Dutch for getting himself in this goddamned situation, but most of all he's angry at whoever did all this. He swears to God that if Dutch hasn't killed them then he will, and he knows that Hosea will be more than glad to help.

He takes a deep breath before he makes the trek back to the tent, and the nauseous feeling only heightens with every step that he takes towards Dutch's tent.

Just like Miss Grimshaw said, Dutch's wounds are all bandaged up by the time he reaches the tent, and Arthur is grateful that he doesn't have to see the sheer amount of blood and bruises on his torso anymore. However, his face is certainly a sight. Bruises are scattered on his jaw and cheeks, and Hosea is just gently wiping away the blood from Dutch's face, and Arthur doesn't even want to think about the bruises on his neck.

"His nose is broken," Hosea tells him quietly when Arthur sits down beside him, "and the cut on his side is all bandaged up now. All we can do is wait."

"He'll be okay, won't he Hosea?"

"Of course, Arthur. Besides you, Dutch is one of the most _stubborn_ bastards I've ever met," Hosea says, making them both laugh.

After that they both sit in silence, Hosea's eyes solely transfixed on the rise and fall of Dutch's chest. The movement is barely noticeable, but Hosea sees it, and he clings to it desperately. Neither of them talk after that, both sitting in silence, the only noise being the rattling breaths coming from Dutch. Arthur doesn't miss how Hosea takes Dutch's hand in his own, his knuckles bandaged as well, it pleases Arthur greatly to know that Dutch wouldn't have gone down without a fight.

Dutch wakes up a little over a day later, letting out a soft groan as he opens his eyes, squinting when the light causes his head to ache. To say that he felt like death would be an understatement. He moves to sit up but is stopped when rough hands are placed gently on his chest, careful not to touch any bruises.

"Lay back down, Dutch," Hosea tells him, and Dutch obeys, knowing that if he doesn't it might _actually_ end up with his death by Hosea's hands.

"I feel like _shit_ ," Dutch grumbles, his throat still not fully healed from almost being strangled to death.

"You look even worse," Hosea says, and Dutch huffs out a small laugh, as painful as it was, "here, drink some water."

Dutch lets Hosea help him lift up his head as he takes a small sip, not able to drink any more than that. The relief that his throat feels is almost unbelievable, He slumps back down to the bed, that small movement taking so much energy out of him.

"What the hell happened to you, Dutch? You had everyone here worried sick."

Dutch feels guilt wash over him, and he looks sheepishly up at him, "bar fight," was all he said.

Hosea scoffed, "a fucking _bar fight_? Dutch, you can't be serious. How goddamned irresponsible are you?"

"I know," Dutch sighed, already mentally preparing himself for the lecture.

"You could have fucking _died_ , and- and because of _what_? Your inability to shut your mouth for ten seconds?"

"I _know_ ," Dutch says, a little more exasperated than before.

"You have no idea how worried everyone was. I practically had to force Arthur to sleep. Y- you're lucky we still had medical supplies leftover because if we didn't you could have-"

"You used the last of the bandages? _Goddamnit_ Hosea, we needed those for important situations," Dutch says, his voice as loud as he could muster, which considering the state of him, wasn't that loud, his brows furrowed as he looked up at Hosea.

"This was an important situation, Dutch! You- you were bleeding out: you were fucking _dying_!"

"I had it handled," Dutch said as nonchalantly as possible, despite his rising frustration at himself.

"You had it handled? You got fucking _stabbed_!"

" _Cut_ ," Dutch said pointedly, "I got cut, I did not get stabbed."

" _Dutch_ ," Hosea says, the tone of his voice a warning.

Dutch deflated, "I know."

Hosea deflated too, his tense shoulders slumping down, "I- I'm sorry, Dutch. I was just worried is all. You came back in the dead of night, and collapsed off your horse and, god, I thought you were dead."

Dutch grabs Hosea's hand in his own, "I'm not gonna lie, Hosea, I thought I was dead too. Don't even recall making it back to camp."

Hosea gives Dutch a small smile, "you scared everyone to near death."

Dutch chuckles, "wasn't the first time."

His throat is starting to ache again, and he brings up a hand to touch the skin of his neck, wincing when pain flares from even the slightest touch. Hosea is almost instantly grabbing his hand, and pulling it away, telling him, "don't touch your neck, Dutch. You need to let it heal, got some hell of a bruise there. How'd that even happen?"

"Bastard tried to strangle me."

Something darkens in Hosea's eyes, and in the corner of his eye, he sees Hosea's fist clench so hard he's slightly worried his bones might break.

"Are they dead?" Hosea asks, his voice barely concealing anger.

"I don't know, Hosea, I don't think so. Was more focused on getting out of there."

Hosea nods understandably, and Dutch asks him, "you're not going to go after them are you?"

When Hosea says nothing, Dutch lets out an exasperated sigh as he could muster, " _Hosea_..."

Hosea looks at him incredulously, "are you really going to tell me that if any one of us were in your position you wouldn't be the first one out there hunting whoever did this down?"

Now Dutch is the one who stays silent, and Hosea gives him a knowing look, which quickly melts into something softer. Hosea gives Dutch a small smile, smoothing down the stray strands of Dutch's hair that stuck up out of place, "but we can leave all that for later, Arthur will be up soon, and I know that he'll want to see you, so it's best you get some sleep."

"Is he going to give me a lecture too?"

Hosea laughs, "you know he will."

Dutch doesn't have it in him to even act like he's upset, instead giving Hosea as big of a smile as he can muster. His eyes feel heavy, and sleep is looking suddenly very appealing.

"Can you stay here with me whilst I get some rest," Dutch asks, his eyes already closed.

He can't see it, but he can _hear_ Hosea's smile in his voice, "of course, Dutch. I wouldn't have it any other way."


End file.
